This is not the Kyrgyzstan you are looking for

Ride a BMX around the world – Now with 95% less cycling

The road ended, the final Chinese checkpoint hidden behind a closer roller door, a ninth and final passport check before entering Kyrgyzstan. A desolate mountainous wasteland on the millennia old Irkeshtam pass, the village in which we sat seemed completely abandoned, the small buildings all but reduced to rubble twisted in barbed wire. I had taken up host of a heavy flu during the ride to the border which was progressively getting worse. Motivation was at an all time low, and at the worst possible time.

 

After a lengthy wait, my border crossing mate, a hitch-hiker named Luke from Switzerland, and I made our way down a small hill towards Kyrgyzstan customs. 

Krygyz customs were a friendly bunch. Finding out I was from Australia was unexpectedly reacted with “ooooo, Australia. Crocodile Dundee”. Such a simple reference, but knowledge of Australia past ‘kangaroo’ I was yet to see anywhere across Asia. 

Kyrgyzstan is known for the most relaxed borders in Central Asia, entry granted with an uncomplicated stamp at the border and we were free to roam.

Foolishly I hadn’t changed any money to local currency (Kyrgyz Som) before crossing the border. Reports were of a currency exchange on both sides, although there were none to be seen, nor any ATM’s. This could prove to be one of the biggest mistakes I had made to date. A trusted method of ‘winging it’ the entire way had backfired miserably. We were in the middle of absolute nowhere. The nearest city of Osh, Kyrgyzstan’s second largest city was 250km to the west. Food and water which I carried from China, ready for the mountain journey across the country, would have to last. 

Only this incessant flu now stood in my way.

 

This was a landscape I was yet to witness. Rocky desert mountains, stained with layers of red rock shadowed by snow covered peaks. Gasps of awe were disappointingly short lived. Finally in the less travelled ‘Stan’s’ and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep. 

Luke was happy to camp straight away and a few kilometres up the road we wandered into a dry sandy river bed, hidden by a row of thorny bushes. The temperature plummeted as the sun dropped behind a mountain and an icy wind blew through valley. With no energy to cook I climbed into my warm tent, surely I would feel better soon.

Luke had quietly disappeared in the morning. All that remained was a flattened out patch of sand where his tent had stood. 

My health had nowhere near improved but I didn’t want to remain static if I could help it. The pack up procedure was slow and painful. Each part of the pack up puzzle required a break in between. Simply shoving my sleeping gear back into its bag reduced me to a frowning mess, sitting in the sand with my head in my hands. Somehow it all came together, as it always does. 

A short walk up the road was a small farming village of Nura. I was immediately spotted by a group of kids on their bicycles. They surrounded me like an intimidating gang while I walked slowly. This was the last thing I was in the mood for today. If I kept walking and speaking to them in my best Australian english I hoped they would leave me alone. It was only reaching the other side of the village that left them behind and the climb up the first pass was to begin.

Still in plain sight of the village I found refuge on the inside of the first switchback in the road. I must have only gone about 3-4km for the day before reaching, and passing, the limits of determination.

By 2pm I had been floored yet again. Hidden from the road I set up my little green house and fell asleep. 

Woken by a herd of sheep passing my open tent and the sounds of a shepard whistling and calling out to keep them moving. I fought the urge to stay inside and rose to see who was there. Nothing to do except wave and force a smile to the horesman mustering his sheep. He waved back and as the sheep all but passed he turned his horse towards me and charged at my tent. A short 20 metre gallop, pulling up his steed in a cloud of dirt just before my tent, covering it in dust. The white of the horses eyes beared down upon me, the breath from its nostrils steaming in the evening air. Not even for a second had I thought to flinch or feel the slightest of menace. It was obvious he was trying to give me a fright, instead I laughed. 

The horseman with all but three teeth in his mouth and mangled broken fingers dismounted and wrestled to keep his horse under control. A perfect match of man and beast. 

I was offered a drink of cold tea, which I felt I had no choice to accept. The ominous character crouching in front of me and now asking for a cigarette. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, he asked over and over again. 

I didn’t have the greatest feeling but poor health had not impaired my judgment of such a character. His demeanour reminding me more of the sort of bully you may, at times, meet in a pub back home. 

Instinctively I had kept my tent closed, camera and such things hidden. I didn’t feel like I was going to be robbed at all, more subtly encouraged to give something up. 

I wanted nothing more that for him to piss off and leave me alone. Reaching into my tent to grab a bag of dried fruit to share. I passed him some dried banana and ate some too. He then signalled for me to place the bag on the ground and we both ate another piece before he grabbed the whole bag, tied the end and put it into his saddlebag. I didn’t care, he had what he wanted and I was just glad he was leaving. Asking me to take a photo of him before he left in a somewhat guilty gesture to compensate for his rudeness. I again shrugged to say “no camera”, he must have though I was born yesterday.

Its entertaining to continually see people being, well…. people. Regardless of age, race or religion, all sorts could be found. Kindness clearly reigns supreme but occasionally, even on a remote Kyrgyzstan mountain pass, a douchebag can be found. 

Glad to be alone I again could hide myself from the world. A most uncomfortable night ensued, shivering from a combination of cold mountain air and what has now become a serious bout of powerful Chinese flu. Discontented from aches and pains I hadn’t felt for some time I made a rash decision that, if I woke without relief, I would try to hitch a ride.

And try I did. Another agonising pack up and I made my way to the road and waited for a car. I was aware that in Kyrgyzstan, and especially coming from Irkeshtam on the south east border with China, no-one rides for free. A predicament I would have to try and overcome without the right cash. I did however have a fistful of Chinese Yuan to entice a driver with. 

The first car stopped, clearly a transport coming from the border. I tried my best to solicit a free ride and then went about having a crack offering some Yuan. I worked out the driver was insisting I pay the equivalent of $100USD, an exorbitant amount in these parts, and this was to take me only 60km down the road to the next village of Sary Tash. I felt altogether insulted. This was a vain attempt to take advantage of a stupid tourist stuck in the mountains, and there was no budging on the price. 

I said the opposite of “thank you” and then “I’ll walk”. Being insulted in such a way gave me a new found energy, to defy an endeavour to rip me off I was determined to push on again.

The road began to wind up and down through some of incredibly rugged terrain. The asphalt remained smooth and I was now actually making a little ground. This would’t last long. I almost regret not bowing to the pressure of the easy road, by now surely I would have been somewhere safe and warm. 

A bitter disappointment I wasn’t enjoying what could have been an incredible ride across the country. I tried in vain to force something, anything, to make life a little easier. I had nothing. 

I had once again forced myself beyond a reasonable realm of my ability and became incredibly stressed when my hat blew off flying down a hill into the wind. This was a clear sign to find a safe place to rest.

A small bout of fortune at the bottom of the hill stood a reasonably tall bridge with a path to one side leading down to a rocky stream, watering trickling through the snow. The other side went straight up again. It was a no brainer to camp here.

I felt safe and hidden under the bridge with a supply of fresh running water and a supply of firewood. Although the firewood was somewhat useless drift wood, combusting like tissue paper and making more of an ash cloud than providing real heat. 

Now 20km in three days, 230km to Osh seemed impossible. I still had plenty of food but there was no sign of recovery. The pass was still to climb.

Another horse and rider on dusk had found my secret hiding place. I sighed and zipped up my tent waiting for them to get closer. This guy however couldn’t have been more opposite than the dickhead from yesterday. He dismounted and shook my hand, again asking for a cigarette. There was no pressure when I wasn’t able to supply one. When he crouched before my tent I could see the gentle kindness I was more used to in fellow humans. His horse stood behind him without being held and rested its head on my visitors shoulders. I felt at ease while he was there, neither of us saying a word. Soon he left me there to slowly deteriorate towards what was beginning to feel like a slow painful death. 

I didn’t move from my tent the next day, I couldn’t stomach the thought of having to move another inch. In fact even moving an inch positively sent a sharp discomfort throughout my entire body, my head pounded and I was coughing up vital organs. In other words, it really sucked. 

This had quickly and undoubtedly become the toughest 4 days yet. It wasn’t the first time I had been down, though each time getting back up is harder and harder. I was long warn out and had been for several months. 

What sounded like another farmer in the morning was actually two military officers. How did they find me? Either way they didn’t look too impressed. There is nothing quite like being woken up by an unimpressed man with a machine gun. I ran through the usual pantomime, explaining with charades my predicament and story of how I ended up here. Getting my passport, my camera was spotted and soon they were looking through the photos. My backpack was also open for inspection. I soon realised I had to kick into suspicious gear when the larger of the two soldiers put both my camera and passport in his pocket, as soon as I asked for them back they were returned. I had a couple of cheeky buggers on my hands. 

Not exactly in a position to argue, although I did try, I was instructed to pack up and come with them. It didn’t help when they just began to walk off with my bags.

From what I gathered my camping spot was subject to flooding if I stayed much longer, giving reason to their discontent. Perhaps it was ill health, or maybe the bloke with a machine gun walking off with my bags, but soon I was in their van and heading up the hill. 

In a caustic twist of fate, not 500 metres from where I camped, around the next bend was a military checkpoint. A barrier across the road and a small grubby looking soviet style caravan. Had I just moved that little bit further when reaching the bridge, conceivably help was at hand. 

I couldn’t quite work out if I was being helped or detained for some unknown reason. I was instructed to come and sit in the small caravan. Inside was a desk, bench, bed and small wood fire stove. A third soldier sound asleep on the bed. Asked if I wanted to also sleep, I refused. I had a hard time figuring out my new found friends, or if they were indeed friends. I sat on the bench with my hands tucked underneath my arm pits and eyes half open, carefully watching as my camera, and now phone, were being scrutinised. 

I tried to explain I wanted to go, the answer was always “sit, sit”. I finally was allowed to fetch some water from my gear which was still in their van, and followed the whole way. 

Other military seemed to come and go. Each time upsetting the balance of mood in the caravan. It was these moments which made me feel uncomfortable. Other than that I wasn’t too bothered with the thousands of photos I had been looked at one by one, that was until all the batteries had run out.

“Come, come”, I didn’t even have time to think. Almost literally dragged outside to find my gear had been loaded into a small car. All except my bike. “Where are you taking me?”. “Don’t worry I take for sleep”, the driver of the car spoke, at the very least, a little english. I climbed into the back seat and had my bike loaded on top of me. 

Certainly I was disappointed to be in a car. Kyrgyzstan was supposed to be the beginning of the rest of an uncompromised journey, it was becoming a spectacular failure.

The world was flying by at great speed. My driver happy to gamble his fate on the road, overtaking on blind turns and plowing into snow drifts covering the road. 

The pass was an incredible sight, plateauing at the summit to a vast alpine tundra. Scattered with abandoned caravans and sights of the enormous Alay mountain range which extends from the Tien Shan mountains, running east to west across Kyrgyzstan and the northern rim of the Pamir range in Tajikistan.

I let my eyes get heavy and then close having no idea where I was about to end up when they opened. 

“Where are we?”. “Osh, my city”. Oh Shit, these blokes had taken me the entire way across the country. Negotiating the price for, what I thought was a free ride, at the end of a journey is one of the biggest travelling no no’s. It was agreed I could pay with Yuan which was a bonus and the price only a fraction of what I had been asked for previously. For Kyrgyzstan though it was a lot. 

A small laminated sign on the gate said ‘Osh GH’. I had been delivered to a guesthouse located amongst some very drab four story apartment blocks. Disappointment turned to relief that I could now crawl into a warm bed. 

The owner of the guesthouse, Denya, greeted me with a warm smile. The short bearded man making me feel very welcome. 

After a lengthy rest I found a pharmacy to try and assist the slow recovery. On the way back to the guesthouse I stopped in a small grocery store and was met by a boisterous Russian lady. My ailment was clearly noticed by the lady as she reached behind the counter and pulled out a large jar with a liquid with some sort of flowers inside. “Medicine for you, drink”. “What is it?” I asked, “Wodka and…..” I’m not sure what she said but she pointed to a flowering tree outside. “Drink, drink. Look, my boys not sick”. It was quite a large serving which I was made to stand in the store and drink. Probably just the immediate effects of a large straight vodka (sorry, wodka), I did feel some temporary relief.

Slowly I pulled myself together and was able to look around the city. Osh is Kyrgyzstan’s second largest city after the capital Bishkek.

I had now teleported from Chinese text, to Cyrillic (what we know as Russian). Menus were no easier to read although Osh did offer a few rather good restaurants, provided you like meat and bread. The largest bazar in Central Asia is in Osh. A rather relaxed affair without the usual spruiking or harassment to buy which is most unusual. 

If walking isn’t your thing there are tons of marshuka’s (small busses) to take you anywhere you need to go. Alternatively there is the local trolley bus, or tram, which is actually a regular rubber tired bus tethered to overhead power lines. I love these things, I could just see the possibility of so many things to go wrong. 

For tourists, Osh is more of a transit city rather than a tourist attraction. A day would be more than enough time to take in the sights and climb the small Sulaiman-Too mountain in the middle of the city. 

Feeling well enough to continue I needed a new plan. I had only been granted a one month entry at the border instead of the usual two and now getting to Bishkek to organise visas for the leg to Turkey would mean another motorised transport. 

The guesthouse offered a range of tours for backpackers and also was able to arrange a Tajikistan visa’s. Hmmmmm, I had never even considered this route. Heading north would mean I would have to reach Bishkek, and then continue further north into Kazakhstan only to travel south through the length of Uzbekistan towards Iran. I felt tired just thinking about it, Tajikistan on the other hand was a viable shortcut. 

And soon a shiny new Tajikistan visa was in my passport. The only problem was that it was date specific meaning I could only enter after the specified date. This gave me a window of a few days before I would tackle the 300km stretch along the Uzbek border to leave the country. 

As I have always said, “Its going to get harder before it gets easier”.  True to form it happened by way of a debilitating 24 hour migraine, and not 24 hours before I was planning to leave. I was beginning to get worried about my health. Not so much that I considered giving up, more to the tune of “are you fucking kidding me?”.

An extra day was all it took to get ready to leave. Boredom was also assisting in the leaving process after nearly two weeks in Osh, now aptly named by myslelf as ‘Kyrgyzstan’s most boring city’. 

I knew any fitness I once had was all but gone. Far from 100 percent fit I cycled out of the city and headed south. A smooth flat road left the city behind and toward the rolling green steppe of the Kyrgyzstan/Uzbekistan border. 

Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan have always had tension regarding the location of their borders. Until only a couple of years ago the road which was now taking me south to Batken on the Tajik border actually found its way into Uzbek territory. This would require someone like me to have an Uzbekistan visa for the short ride south. Fortunately though some clever people involved with the mapping of such borders came to their senses and resolved the simple logistical problem. Still, further south, there are three enclaves of Uzbek territory inside Kyrgyzstan, completely unattached from Uzbekistan. An area which has dealt with much tension in the past is now completely safe… for now. 

After a great start I quickly faded. My muscles ached all over after such a long break without cycling and even my neck became increasingly sore. The consolation prize was that it was now warm, warm enough in fact to produce a little sweat from my brow. 

The beautiful simple green scenery was making way for a new spring. The odd red or yellow flower poking its head up through the dirt, checking if the snow had subsided for the rest of the flowers to join in. It wouldn’t be long before the flowers were in bloom.

25km and I was spent. Laying down on the soft grass in a ditch off the road, I wasn’t about to move in a hurry and waited for the sun to find the horizon before setting up my tent.

A dog appeared out of nowhere (not literally nowhere of course) and sat itself in front of my tent. At first it was quite timid about sniffing me hand. Once I managed to give it a pat it became my new guard dog, barking at any horses or cows that came too close. Thinking of a way to bring my new friend along with me he vanished, just as quick as he appeared. 

Energy was still dangerously low. One short day of cycling and I had not had the over night recovery I am used to. I had to tackle a short pass to begin the day, a not so steep incline with the top in plain sight. I strained all the way knowing that on the other side was the village of Nookat. Down I went towards the village, the road taking a turn for the usual and deteriorating quickly, leaving only a narrow potholed strip about as wide as a single lane, the rest a compact gravel shoulder. I call this ‘flat tyre territory’. 

Today was not the day for flat tyres though. I reached the village with my last ounce of strength and walked through the busy Friday street. With the amount of people around I was surprised to find out there were no guesthouses around. Trudging on away from the busy streets the rough road inclined slightly. I was now walking ever so slowly, cars and trucks kicking up massive dust clouds. 

The fight continued. At least for a portion of the afternoon anyway.   

Farming land came to the very edge of the drivable road and finding a camp spot was nigh on impossible. I found a bus stop to park myself and find some resolve. The timber on the bus stop seats had been removed leaving only steel frames, so there I sat on the concrete ground. I was once again completely fucked. 

I really don’t know why I put myself through this at all. I could barely move and felt the irrevocable sting of a relapse in flu punch me in the face.

For two hours I sat there, health rapidly failing me yet again. I was ready to spend the night right there on the cement patch on the side of the road. But soon I couldn’t hack it anymore and decided to return to Osh. It was irrefutably stupid to continue in this fashion. It was time to see a doctor, a real doctor, and not one that will prescribe vodka.

Hitching a lift was again difficult. My lack of patience doesn’t at all help. The only way was to roll back down the hill into busy Nookat and find a taxi.

The transport area was simple to find. Busses and vehicles parked without rhyme or reason and loud taxi drivers soliciting anyone who came too close.

I managed to dodge the loudest of spruikers and found a quiet gentle driver. A most reasonable price of 100 Kyrgyz Som ($2 AUD) would get me and my bike the 50km back to Osh. Before we could even begin to jam my bike into the back of his hatchback the other taxi drivers noticed me and crowded around trying to get me to change my mind. This was the most aggressive circus of taxi solicitation I had witnessed. My arms were being grabbed and people were right in my face “Osh? Osh?”, my poor driver having to almost wrestle my bike out of someone else’s hands. “FUCK OFF!!” is about all it took to calm everyone down, or at least get them to fuck off. 

I made it out of Nookat unscathed, that is if you don’t count the deathly relapse in health. I had clearly gone too far without a full recovery and now it was time to think seriously about how I was going to deal with it. A week and a half left on my visa wasn’t long. Recovery wouldn’t only have to be quick, it would have to start soon. 

During the terrifying taxi ride back to Osh (I wondered if my driver was indeed a driver) I came up with a feeble plan; see a doctor, make sure I am not actually dying, 6 days to start to feel better, if not, make the heartbreaking decision to find a way home. 

Back to my bed in Osh, I don’t think they were expecting to see me quite so soon. Denya was able to help me find a doctor and organised one of his staff to take me there the next day. Had I not had a translator seeing a doctor would have been an ultimate challenge. They checked my blood and amongst other things urine but found nothing serious, or at least nothing serious which I could understand in Russian. Thank goodness. I could only think that I had worm myself down time and time again. 11 months overland on a BMX could do that I suppose.

As the point of no return drew closer I actually began to look at flights back home. I was slowly feeling better but wondered if it was enough. My life coach and girlfriend Nicole (crazy I know, she is still standing by and encouraging me), always knows the right things to say at the right time. 

“You can do it Cal”

This time? I’m not sure I can.